Hate to be alive
by GirlWithin
Summary: 'And together they bred, produced, and nurtured hate.' DHr Oneshot


**Disclaimer: **I do not own own anything associated with JK Rowling's genious and multi-making books. I wish I did though. sigh That will be the day

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_"The irrationality of a thing is no argument against its existence, rather a condition of it." - Friedrich Nietzsch_

Shells. Empty, soulless shells. That's what they were. Mere imprints of the vibrant, bright, and _living_ humans they once portrayed.

They could hear it.

The incessant ticking of clocks showing seconds passing, minutes passing, hours passing, _days_ passing. And not once did time stop. Brutal and unrelenting, time kept on stoically ignoring the pleas and cries for it to halt; to freeze. Time to freeze. Time to think. Time to relax.

But that time had passed.

It was times like these that she forgot what she was fighting for. Days passed and people passed. Soon she forgot to cry or even _care_ when another familiar face was laid to rest in the soothing darkness of dirt. Soon she forgot to smile, cry, yell, or even feel anything.

Ever since the war started off in sixth year, she had lost herself. Gone was the little girl answering questions to prove herself. Because, what was the point? War didn't care how many owls you had attained or whether you were Head Girl. War was brutal; taking and never giving back.

She wasn't the only one.

Harry, sweet Harry, no longer burned for success. He no longer became excited when a new lead showed up. Instead, he took it strides. For him, death had become a release after his work was done. For him, life was something to accomplish before sweet release. His once beautiful green eyes had become a jaded dull green and his once slim seeker build had become anorexic and starved.

She had long ago, stopped believing in right or wrong. What did it matter that both sides used torture and death? What did it matter that both sides were fighting for superfluous reasons? What did anything matter? For she was no longer fighting for the future, she was fighting for the present. She didn't care much for the welfare of Muggles or Muggleborns now and she'd sure as hell be kidding herself to say she cared for innocent victims being slaughtered every day. Caring for others had no place in battle. However, she did care for time to trickle by in which they could live a little more, dragging their exhausted and wasted souls forward each day.

She cared enough to be dead. For being dead in the War was what it was all about. Being dead meant feeling nothing and gazing at ripped, torn faces, absentmindedly adding another tally to the death toll.

Being dead meant staying alive.

Hermione gazed down at her book and dully read the last sentence.

"_At times one remains faithful to a cause only because its opponent do not cease to be insipid." – Friedrich Nietzche_

How ironic that what had once began as faith had turned into an automaton. She stood up slowly and stretched, taking care to let her eyes dart lazily around the room for glitches in the system, making sure that her eminent death would not arrive all too soon. She trundled down the stairs and into the kitchen, placing a customary kiss on Ron's and Harry's cheeks.

They didn't feel it.

She sadly watched Tonks clumsily crash around the kitchen, attempting to cook a decent meal with the very little food they had. Molly would have whipped up something lovely in just a few minutes and Molly would have helped them stay alive. But it was Molly who hadn't lived.

She remembered Ron's howling and the loud and ragged sobs of all the Weasleys as Remus carried in the pitiful bundle that was now Molly Weasley. She remembered the ripping of her heart as the limp body of George was carried in next. Fred had been broken that day, torn in half so badly, he resembled ripped paper. She remembered the last of her tears as she wept for the divided Weasley family.

Finally unable to sit with the other broken parts of the Golden Trio, she walked all the way up to the attic. Here she could reminisce about being undead, about being alive.

Pushing open the heavy door, she entered the dusty room and paused when she saw the figure leaning on the opposite wall.

Him.

Her once fierce temper flickered with old longings for hate and anger, then disappeared. She was past the point of becoming angry with him. She knew she hated him to some extent. The whole house hated him too; hated his presence; hated his very existence. To them, he resembled all they loathed. To them, he was still the enemy. How could she not feel angry with him? It was he, who had hurt her fragile soul when she just but a child.

She cocked her head and observed him quietly. He had changed. His face was no longer sharp and pointed and his mouth no longer curved into his customary smirk. Instead, he wore a grimace and his body was crumpled, as if permanently scarred from the inside. His hair was no longer gelled down pretentiously but let loose, hanging in mussed up strands around his pale face.

She never thought he would be the one to turn to their side. She never even knew _why_ he had turned from the other side. Change of heart? New perspective? Conscience appeared?

Bullshit.

He finally noticed her presence and turned silently to her. "What do you want Granger?" he rasped out, voice hoarse from months of silence. He regarded her dully, none of the malice left in his eyes. He was dead too; life sucked out of him by the very throes of battle.

She just gazed at him, silent and unmoving.

He blinked slowly and whispered, "Have you ever wanted to hurt, Granger?" She looked to the side hesitantly.

"Mutilation of the body is wrong and immoral. Not only is it emotionally bad for the health, but a danger to the physical body as well," she toned monotonessly. There. She had given a stereotypical Hermione Granger answer.

Malfoy sneered slightly for a split second, then lapsed into his cold façade. "Brilliant deduction. I wouldn't have expected a less accurate analysis," he spit out, his tone became frigid and biting. "Don't you ever want to feel? Don't you ever want to be normal? Alive?" Hermione shivered slightly at his words. He had hit her thoughts head on.

She spat out, "What right do _you_ have to feel? Huh? You, former Deatheater. You, who have bullied my friends and me for years. You, who have killed, raped, torture, and maimed countless individuals before you _joined_ our side. How dare you want to feel! How dare you," she ended in a trembling whisper.

Her stomach was clenched and she couldn't understand the sudden heat that was radiating off her skin. But she didn't complain. Being colds for so long made her welcome the confusing heat pooling at the bottom of her stomach. Suddenly with a jolt, she realized the heat spiraling throughout her senses. Recognized the fierce burning that was slowly starting to seep back into her numb body. And with a sort of morbid joy, she welcomed the feeling of _hate_ with open arms.

She took one step forward. Eyes hardened and burning, she hissed, "What right do you have to want normality when all those dead and torn bodies are in the ground because of you. Does that make you feel the slightest bit of emotion? To know that girl's virginities were lost in a whirl of _Crucio's_ and pooling blood? To know that all those Muggles screamed for mercy as you made them watch their families be tortured?" she asked, reveling in the outpouring of loathing onto this thin boy in front of her.

She thought he was going to let the accusations slide off of him but was proved wrong when he looked up at her. His eyes were blazing and his face was contorted into a grotesque mask of anger. He strode over angrily to her and grasped her by the shoulders, his fingers digging ruthlessly.

He snarled out, "What do you _want_ me to say, Granger? You want me to say I enjoyed killing those people? Enjoyed seeing their blood run from their weeping eyes? Enjoyed seeing how _their_ blood was the same color as _mine_?" He shook her aggressively, eyes burning holes into her face. "What do you fucking want, _Mudblood_?"

He deftly caught her wrist as she moved to slap him and his mouth twisted into a sick grin at her cry of pain when he twisted it so that the bone almost cracked. She glared at him through a light sheen of unwanted tears and whispered, "I _hate_ you."

He stared at her then, eyes roving across her face as is trying to discern the phrase. "I _hate_ you too," he ripped out.

Then he flung her wrist from his hand and grabbed her hair roughly, yanking her head back. He brushed his knuckles across her neck and said, "I _hate_ you so much," lowering his lips to hers and kissing her softly.

Hermione was frozen at first, unable to fully comprehend what was happening to her. His lips were molding against her own bruised lips, gently yet insistently conveying the desperation he held; the _hate_ he held.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she parted her lips and their tongues touched. And with that simple touch, their kiss became torrent and hard; rough and bruising.

She had no idea how in the world they decided to go so far, but as they fought for dominance, clothes were ripped apart and hands were placed on skin. She couldn't understand the moans issuing from her mouth or the way his heart speeded up when she felt him.

When he thrust into her, he grounded out, "I hate you," before kissing her again. When her hips arched up to met him, she couldn't help but whimper, "I hate you." And when they both came together, it was not the whispering of each other's names that made them lose control. It was the cries of "I hate you" that made fireworks burst across their vision. It was the way she gazed at him in disgust that made him let go. It was the loathing in his voice that made her dig her nails into his back, crying out her release.

As the war raged on, the two began to hate each other all the more. Thawed out of their numb and icy existence, the couple couldn't seem to _hate_ each other more than they did. Every time another friend, another comrade, died, she would run to him. Every time he killed a former Slytherin or cursed one of his old accomplices, he would run to her.

And together they bred, produced, and _nurtured_ hate.

00000

"_Impedimenta!_"

"_Crucio!"_

"_Stupefy!"_

Hermione sighed in relief when her curse finally hit the persistent Deatheater. Pausing a few minutes behind a tomb to rest, she tried to catch her breath. How long she had been battling was beyond her. Her hair was streaked with dirt and blood; her hands scarred and scratched.

Ironic how the final battle was being fought in cemetery. A ready-made package for the dead bodies. _'You stab, we slab,' _she thought ruefully. She cautiously stepped out from behind the tomb, wand at ready. She had just stepped over another body, when she heard the soft sound of grass being crushed beneath a foot. Whirling around, she heard rather then saw the Deatheater raise his wand and utter the killing curse while also being struck down right after.

For once, time slowed down and she saw him run towards her. He grabbed her around the waist and whispered one last time, "I _hate_ you." Then his body spasmed violently as the green curse hit his body instead of hers.

She laid him down wordlessly, numb once more. Time sped back up and she could hear the screams and cries of more people falling to the same fate. She walked away slowly, imprinting the spot in her mind so that she could find his body again later on. She added another tally to her death poll. Numbness had once again pervaded her body and her heart seemed icier than ever before. But before his limp form was lost to the fog, she turned back one last time.

"I _hate_ you too."

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I know that was kind of angsty, but I was in a really angsty mood the night I wrote this. After all, _Tristan and Isolde_ kind of does that to you.

Please REVIEW!


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